Family Album (32 page)

Alison’s voice soars. Possible meltdown, thinks Gina. She breaks in: “Absolutely, Mum—I say, look, here’s another you haven’t opened.” She thrusts a parcel at Alison.

Alison stares at the parcel, puts it down. “I mean, it’s the natural and normal thing, wanting children, I always, a real family life is such a privilege, you’re still too young to realize I suppose, I mean, can you imagine
not
growing up at Allersmead, with all of you, and when Dad and I got married naturally the assumption was . . .”

Gina glances at Charles. Impassive. Impervious?

“. . . and whatever happened, I mean
whatever,
as far as I was concerned family life came first, that was what really mattered, family, and of course Dad felt the same, didn’t you, the important thing was for people to grow up in this lovely big family and a lovely home, and that always came first,
whatever,
one’s own concerns were neither here nor there, well of course they were but I never . . . what mattered was the family, always, when you’re a parent that’s how you feel, one day you’ll understand that when you have your own children, Dad knows what I’m talking about, and of course he’s always felt, haven’t you . . . ?”

She is pink-faced, has run herself into the ground. She stares at Charles.

He does not look at her. He puts the ivory-handled paper knife on the table. “Any contribution would be superfluous. You apparently know how I feel.”

It is said quietly, courteously even. He gets up, walks out of the room. No one speaks. Seconds later they hear the slam of the front door.

Down in the cellar there was a different Mum, thinks Gina. In the cellar game. Me. I reinvented her. I made a person who never cooked anything but somehow bangers and mash simply appeared, who told stories, who turned old bedsteads into boats and a cindery floor into the Antarctic. I made a kind of archetypal ur-mother who did nothing but around whom everything revolved. And Paul, now I come to think of it—he had his own concept of what a father is. Well, well.

In Johannesburg, Gina checks her e-mail. There is one from Philip.

He says: “I seem to have been unable to say this over the last few days. Don’t know why. Attack of nerves. Stupid. Anyway, here it is.

“I would very much like it if we got married. An early reply would be appreciated.”

 

 

 

 

M
y mother was not my mother, says Clare. And the person who was my mother wasn’t, if you see what I mean. Well, no—how could you? My father was my father, so that at least is straightforward enough. And my brothers and sisters were apparently my brothers and sisters, as indeed they were, or half were.

I don’t know why I’m telling you about all this. I don’t talk about it. Pierre knows. He’s been to Allersmead a couple of times. He finds it all rather peculiar but he just shrugs; well, he’s French.

I’m a bit French myself by now. Ten years based in Paris. And a bit Spanish and a bit Dutch and a bit Chinese—we’re multicultural, in the company. And of course a bit Scandinavian by birth. Which bit? I wonder. The hair, certainly. The hair was always a giveaway.

My not-mother has rather frizzy hair—brown once, gray-brown now. I remember stealing Mum’s hairpins when I was small, to play with. My father—goodness, I can’t see his hair, somehow. Nondescript male hair, no particular color, thin on top.

Ingrid’s hair is mine. Dead ringer. I like it, I’m glad I’ve got it, but it can be a pain to do—it’s so fine and slippery.

There were six of us, six children in that great big house. Allersmead. It was one of the first words I learned, I’m told, taught by Roger and Katie. “Where do you live, Clare?” “Allersmead.”

Paul, Gina, Sandra, Katie, Roger, and me at the end—that’s the age order.

Do you really want me to go on?

All right, then—you can always go to sleep.

Ingrid? Well, yes—you’ve got it. Ingrid was—is—my mother. The au pair. So you see it’s an unusual family background, to put it delicately.

Clare is in bed with a man not her husband. She does not make a habit of this; indeed, this seldom happens, just once in a while, like now. In fact, strictly speaking, she is not in bed with him, but sleeping with him. Alex is in a separate bed, this being a twin-bed hotel room, and a somewhat Spartan hotel at that.

Alex is just about her best friend in the company. Alex is gay. The hotel—or the company manager—has cocked up and there are not enough rooms to go around, so some people must share. Clare and Alex are happy enough to oblige. They are both still a bit hyper after the performance and not ready to sleep, so they lie there talking. Alex tells Clare about his parents’ divorce, when he was seventeen, which he found quite upsetting, and now his mother has a new man, and Alex, who is twenty-five, hasn’t yet come to terms with this but guesses he will have to. People don’t talk much about family stuff in the company, perhaps because the company itself becomes family in some odd way—a new family. Clare is older than practically everyone, and she goes back ten years with the company, so she is a veteran and when people want to tease her they call her the den mother.

Alex says, “Are your parents divorced? You never talk about them.”

“Don’t I?” Clare is vague. “No, I don’t, do I? They’re a rather odd setup, as parents go. My mother was not my mother . . .”

How do I feel about Ingrid? says Clare. Well, she’s Ingrid and always has been, she’s always been there, one can’t imagine Allersmead without her. I don’t think mother, if that’s what you mean, I just think Ingrid. I’m fond of her. I’m fond of them all, but they seem so far away now. So long ago.

Yes, Ingrid’s always been at Allersmead—except one time, apparently, when she went off for a few months, but she came back. And of course one wonders how it’s been for her. She’d never say. Ingrid’s quite—buttoned-up. She doesn’t do emotion. You couldn’t have a heart-to-heart with Ingrid.

No.

No, really—I know it seems odd. I’ve never talked about it with her. Never. Or with the others. We all kind of stashed it away and left it at that.

Well, yes, I suppose there was a point when I somehow realized . . . but it’s very cloudy now, I can’t exactly remember . . . just somehow cottoned on, sort of saw things differently but it didn’t really change anything, things went on the same, they were the same people, just there was this new slant, only one didn’t think too much about it, preferred not to go there, I suppose, and anyway by then all I cared about was dancing, how to be a dancer, how to get to dance school, I was already moving away from Allersmead as it were, it was getting less relevant . . .

Clare sees that Alex is asleep, one hand under his cheek, like a child.

Bless. He’s such a lovely guy.

Here and there, the clouds get thinner, and there is clarity, of a kind.

The hair, of course. She is trying to get it into a coil—it is quite long now—and she says to Sandra: “My hair’s just like Ingrid’s—isn’t that funny?”

What does Sandra say? From far away and long ago Sandra says something about people often looking like their mother.

Their mother?

Clarity, of a kind. Allersmead seems to swing a little, and reassemble itself differently. Clare cannot now remember what she said in reply, if anything. Perhaps Sandra has simply confirmed something that has floated in her head, that has shiftily been there maybe always.

There is another rent in the clouds, at some other point. This time Gina is involved, the other big sister, knowledgeable, confident. They have been to church. Allersmead is atheist, so this is unusual, but an exception is made for the school carol service. The Lord’s Prayer is in Clare’s head: “Our Father, which art in Heaven.” Our father. She says to Gina: “Is our father my father?”

Gina looks at her. Gina’s look knows everything, understands everything. “Yep. He is. All of us’s father. Forget it, right?”

So she forgets. Sort of.